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Because it worked for makesmewannadie...

When you see this on your friends list, write louiseluxsome good smut.

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From:

ladyjaida.livejournal.com

Schuldig wanted a new jacket. He wanted it to fit tight just below the ribs; he wanted it to have sleeves that were too long. He wanted big lapels, gold buttons. He wanted it green.

"That's a truly hideous color," Crawford said.

When Schuldig stained his new jacket the first time it was beating some poor shit over the head with the butt of his gun. Over and over and over. Skulls were cleverly made, though of course there were some smashings they couldn't avoid, like cement from four or five or more stories up. But when it came to crunching a skull with the butt of a gun -- God or whatever had something to do with this, God of man or God of monkeys -- it took a while to do. Over and over and over. Three, four, five. Crunch.

But the poor shit had bled all over his new jacket.

The only reason Schuldig had taken to beating people with his gun was because he'd gotten tired of shooting people with it.

Crawford only ever used his gun for shooting because Crawford's hands were for beating. Great big white hands with short nails, immaculate, clean -- they never fucking bruised and the smoother they were the stronger they felt.

Punching your face in. Touching your throat.

Schuldig put his gun away and inspected the little splatter of blood on the hem of his new coat. There was a science to avoid getting any blood on you while killing someone. For Farfarello, science was more than just anathema: it was unholy. Farfarello really got religion. He got that it was about reaching your hands into someone's chest and tearing out their small bloody piece of beating divinity. Communion, communion.

Whereas Nagi was like Crawford: all science. There was the right way to do things so that you came off surgical and precise and unstained, and still quelled the murderous voice inside your gut.

Schuldig was on the in-between line, always a straddler. He was just killing people. Every day a new way. There weren't enough days in the whole universe, the whole world.

Crawford cracked his knuckles.

"Why don't you even fucking bruise?" Schuldig asked.

"You have a stain on your new jacket," Crawford pointed out.

"I can wash it," Schuldig said. "But it's still going to fucking be there."

Crawford straightened his lapel. One small shadow of hair had fallen free, lay over his forehead; there was a flush of killing in his eyes. Not all science, then. There was something of Farfarello in all of them.

But in Farfarello it was just that, just pure.

"The jacket's fucking hot," Schuldig said. When he drew close to Crawford he could almost, almost smell the blood on his hands. He liked to know it was there. Somewhere at the wrist, where the red veins were a little green, a little blue.

"Incarnadine," Crawford said. "Like you."

From:

ladyjaida.livejournal.com

(I don't know why I did this, btw -- there was a link on

irisbleu's journal and I just sort of ... clicked on it and wrote before I was fully awake. Please forgive me! I am a strange strange stranger, and probably shouldn't be allowed to go on the internet before I'm fully awake. -Jaida)